Then there was my older brother, Julian. He is thirty-six, the firstborn, the heir to the family name, and the golden boy who was celebrated for simply breathing. And then there was me, the buffer, the peacekeeper, the guy expected to be endlessly flexible and completely low-maintenance.
I remember my high school graduation like it was yesterday. It was supposed to be a big deal. I had worked incredibly hard, kept a strong grade point average, and even earned a solid scholarship for college. My parents had promised to take me out for a nice steak dinner afterward to celebrate.
But two weeks before the ceremony, Payton, who was thirteen at the time, decided she absolutely had to see her favorite pop star perform. The catch was that the concert was three states away, and it fell on the exact same weekend as my graduation. You can probably guess what happened next.
My parents did not even hesitate. They bought the concert tickets, booked a hotel, and packed up the car. They told me they were so incredibly proud of me, but Payton had been crying for days, and they just could not bear to break her heart. Then they handed me fifty dollars, told me to order a nice pizza, and drove off.
I walked across that stage to accept my diploma, looking out at a sea of cheering families, knowing perfectly well that mine was hundreds of miles away buying overpriced concert merchandise. I went home that night, ate cold pizza by myself, and told myself it was fine. That was just how my family operated. I was supposed to be the understanding one.
That pattern followed me into adulthood. Every holiday, birthday, and family gathering revolved entirely around Payton’s social life and Julian’s career. I learned to adapt. I told myself it was not malicious. I convinced myself that my parents loved me just as much, but my siblings simply needed more attention.
